


if you fall, i will catch you, i'll be waiting

by smallredboy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Healing, Blood and Injury, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Post-Canon, Sappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Crowley attempts to hide a gunshot wound; angelic healing has interesting side-effects.





	if you fall, i will catch you, i'll be waiting

Crowley is fine. Except he’s not, feeling how the thing he calls blood drips down from the wound in his side, drips down to his waist and tints his perfectly black jeans with blood. He knew visiting the States was a bad idea, but he didn’t expect to get shot there as well. He’s gotten shot enough for a thousand lifetimes, he doesn’t need another one. But he’s at the motel they’re staying at, Aziraphale and him, and his angel won’t notice it quite yet. He has an emotional radar, how hasn’t he felt the pain yet?

He grimaces and sucks in a breath, claws tearing the cloth of his jeans at his skinny knees. The bullet hole is almost clean, a perfect circle into his flesh. 

After a few minutes, Aziraphale looks up from his book. “Crowley, are you alright?”   
  
He claws at his knees more. Enough to make them bleed. “Yeah,” he lies through his teeth. It’s convincing, or so it seems with how Aziraphale looks back at his book. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, standing up, and before he can get out of the motel room, he promptly collapses.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims.

Blood stains his shirt, and his mind becomes a muddled mess, as if not standing up was the only thing helping his brain be on check while he bled silently. He gasps out in pain, clawing at the floor as Aziraphale kneels next to him, moving him gently as he examines the wound.

“Dear,” he gasps, “Why didn’t you tell me you got shot?! This looks terrible—”   
  
“Then use your angel healing,” he coughs out. “And I d-didn’t wanna worry you, of course, angel.”   
  
Aziraphale grimaces and puts his hands on the bullet wound, mumbling prayers under his breath, praying for something or other, something about ignoring Crowley is the Adversary, and he gets a little more light headed and a little less bloody. He coughs again and looks at Aziraphale, and he wonders if this is some side effect of the angel healing he’s never heard about, but his mouth works before his brain.   
  
“I love you!” he exclaims, straightening up and grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You are so— so stunning! You’re so kind and you’re a bit of a bastard, I’ve got to like you for something, but you’re incredible! You collect books, you- you cried over your bookshop— you’re—!”   


Aziraphale stares with wide eyes, opening his mouth, but nothing comes out except for nonsensical stammering. 

“You’re so stupidly handsome -” he breathes out, claws digging into the cloth of Aziraphale’s shirt, cutting it up a little as much as he doesn’t mean to. “I love your tummy, how perfect you are, you’re so stunning, I’m so in love with you, I…”   


Aziraphale starts crying silently, tears streaming down his cheeks, looking so stunned and surprised and his cheeks red—

“Did I-” he coughs again. “Did I fuck everything up? Please— tell me I didn’t fuck everything up.”   


“You  _ idiot _ ,” Aziraphale breathes, still crying, and this time wrapping his arms around him, pulling him ever closer. He’s less lightheaded now, he’s not bleeding anymore, he’s healthy, healthy… “Of course you didn’t fuck everything up! I knew you loved me. You’re full of love always, I was just waiting for you to tell me when you were ready, but I didn’t expect—”   
  
“For me to go on a rant about it while bleeding and getting healed?” Crowley cuts in.

A soft sob and a quiet laugh escape Aziraphale’s lips. “Yes, exactly.”   
  
They stay there for a few seconds, and Aziraphale silently miracles the blood stains away (Crowley notices, but doesn’t say a word). There aren’t any words for those seconds before Crowley wipes Aziraphale’s tears away and looks up at him.

“I want to kiss you,” he says in a reverent whisper.

His angel smiles a little. “I always want to kiss you,” he replies.

He pulls Crowley into a kiss, and they meet silently for several minutes, holding onto each other like they’re the only things left in the world. And without demons or angels at their side, and in a country they don’t quite know, it might be just about right.

“I— I used to hate being immortal, sometimes,” Aziraphale admits, forehead against Crowley’s own. His eyes are a little red with tears, his thick coily hair against Crowley’s straight hair. “Because, like, _infinity_ … it’s overwhelming, you know,” he says, “And I saw humans with their short lifespans, how most of them will never reach a century of life. But now—”   
  
“Aziraphale,” he hisses, “Get to the point.”   
  
“I now love being immortal, dear,” he starts, “Because I will be with you until the end of time.”

Crowley’s eyes widen and he pulls him into another kiss. He hisses into his mouth, with a grateful note human language hasn’t quite invented a word or expression for yet.


End file.
